


Harissa and Spice, and All Things Nice

by LateStarter58



Series: The Booze and Nosh Club: the Tom and Sarah Stories [5]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Discussion of difficulty getting pregnant, F/M, Food Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 07:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17382635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: It's a cold Thursday in North London, and Mrs Hiddleston isn't happy.





	Harissa and Spice, and All Things Nice

**Author's Note:**

> I know I haven't been back to these two since Tom proposed by the fire in his Mum's house, two years ago now... Well, I'm back now, and if Sarah keeps talking, there may be more to come.

**_Lean stewing lamb (or a mix of lamb, beef and chicken)_ **

**_Onions, chickpeas, turnips, carrots_ **

**_Olive oil, salt and pepper, ginger, saffron_ **

**_Couscous, raisins, courgettes, broad beans, tomatoes_ **

**_Parsley, coriander, chilli pepper, paprika, butter (or cinnamon & rosewater)_ **

**_Harissa paste to serve_ **

 

It’s bloody cold today, in that way it only seems to get in England in January. Bitter, cruel, sort of penetratingly chilly. Not that I can really say, because I’m safely snuggled on the sofa, deciding that I’m going to make something hot and spicy for dinner. Warming. Because it’s cold, yeah, inside as well as out.

_Yes, yes, there she goes, that damn ungrateful woman with the perfect life, moaning again… I know you all think that, and I don't blame you. But nothing is ever exactly what it seems from outside, is it?_

Yes, Sarah, focus on one thing: dinner - couscous. Lamb is ideal. And he loves it.

Tom is about to go away AGAIN. Stateside, to Arizona this time for yet another Comic Con. And I shouldn't complain, because unlike most of our time together,  he’s been at home a lot in the last year. And he’s going to be here a lot in the coming one, all Spring and into early Summer at least and I WILL NOT complain, I mustn’t. But the simple fact is despite that I feel miserable: restless, and sort-of unhappy all the time, and it’s not his fault, it’s not mine, it’s biology and it’s making me crabby, sad, CRAZY AF.

I look down at my hands, not-really-resting on my battered _Claudia Roden._ The nails aren’t bad - I had a gel mani for Christmas and it’s still all there, but there are a few hangnails - thanks to my nervous chewing activity. The rings glitter nicely on the left one though, reminding me of that magical day almost a year ago. It will soon be our first anniversary and I was _so sure_ … I look up, at the window. Bare trees, low winter sunshine, a few clouds scudding: my heart lurches at the thought of another year of this endless waiting.

_I don’t think I can. No, be honest, Sarah: I know. I can’t. It hurts too much._

There’s a clatter, a commotion at the door and they’re back. My family, as it stands: husband and fur-baby, Thomas and Bobby. The hairy idiots, I call them. The dog skitters through to the kitchen after a quick nose-bump on my leg, his coat shedding chill air into the room. Tom walks over to where I am curled up, leans down and presses his cold cheek to mine. I shove him away roughly before he gets a chance to do anything appalling with his Frost Giant hands.

“Gerroffyourfreezing!”

“Ehehehe.” He straightens up, continuing his striptease, gradually shedding his glamorous dog-walking ensemble (you know the one) as he drifts towards the stairs. “Is the coffee still hot?”

_Oh yes, the repartee is quite stunning in this house of intellectual bookworms, you know, and when not of Ibsen and the Bard, the talk is all of gala balls and celebrities..._

“I think so, love. You showering?”

“Yep.”

_See what I mean?_

I watch appreciatively as he goes upstairs in just his boxer-briefs, socks and t-shirt, and reluctantly drag my eyes back onto the grease-stained pages of _A New Book of Middle Eastern Food._ At least I can still motivate myself to cook a good meal, despite this other crap in my life..

I think I told you once a year or two ago that life with Tom is one long epiphany. Well it still is, even now, almost a year after we tied the knot, and three years plus since we got together. I don’t take it for granted that this happened to me, little-old nobody me, just a normal person, not glamorous, not a model, not an actress, not famous, not in the papers or anything, at least, _not BT…_

But everything has its limits, and I have discovered precisely where my luck runs out.

We’ve been trying now for eighteen months. It feels like eighteen years. I’ve had tests, so has he. Everything is working order, all the parts are there. We are both fine. Our levels of what is needed are fine. _Everything,_ dammit, is just fine. We just have to keep trying, they tell us. JUST. And we do. We try a lot. And once a month (once every twenty-six or twenty-seven days to be absolutely precise), an unwelcome visitor comes and I sob into my pillow.

When I first felt this urge, over two years ago now, it gripped me like nothing I’d ever known before. It was like a sort of madness. It wasn’t unlike when I fell in love with Tom, but it was that same sort of feeling multiplied by a hundred, because it was that but with this other, baser, deeper, more animal thing mixed in. I had never known a sensation like it, and hardest part was I had to try to fight it, push it down, press it into a ball and squash it into a box. Because my career was just taking off at the same moment, and everything I had worked for throughout my life up until then was coming to fruition. This perfect man with his perfect genes and his beautiful… well his beautiful EVERYTHING, he might have just turned up and pretty much taken over my life, but I couldn’t throw all of the rest of it away. _Not right then._

So we agreed, I’d get through adapting _Saturday_ and we’d see what happened after that. And, as is often the way with TV, nothing much did. We had set a date for our wedding of about a year after Tom’s proposal, and quietly, one night six months or so before that, on this very sofa, he and I agreed that I would stop my contraception. TBH, by that time, I was so desperate to have a baby that the very sight of an infant sent me into a sort of terrible convulsion of need. I could hardly bear to open Facebook in case another former classmate was expecting or had given birth. And he wants to be a Dad, really badly, too. _You guys know this - it shines out of him, right, when he’s with kids, you can see it too?_

It was fun at first: the trying, I mean. And we both assumed it would just, well, _happen._ The anticipation, it was exciting - and naturally Tom was away a fair bit, of course. I went with him some of the time, when I could, but it wasn’t always possible. I had my job at the BBC, as I still do. I had gone back to doing my previous sort of work, only at a slightly higher level. I was editing more, doing quite a bit of consultation stuff, and I was asked to join the team for a couple of big adaptations, but my big break still hasn’t quite materialised after all. _Perhaps I have to wait for Andrew Davies to die, or something… I’m kidding, OBVS!_

He’s back downstairs now, pouring himself a coffee. I’m still on the sofa. Yes, lazy, I know. Actually, _judgemental you,_ it’s because I’ve had yet another migraine the last day or so. That’s why I didn't go on the walk earlier - it’s sunny out, and glare is one of my triggers. I’m getting over yesterday’s bad head, so asking for a new one seems a bit idiotic, even for me. And yes, I’m grumpy, because the most likely cause of the mig is good old PMS. It’s that time.

So, couscous - comfort food. At least it’s nutritious, and Tom loves it.

“What’s on the menu for tonight, then, darling?” He’s sitting down gently beside me - he knows that being bounced around makes my head worse (I swear he is the most patient and considerate of husbands, which under the circumstances makes him a saint, because I’ve been a total BITCH lately).

“Lamb couscous, I thought-”

“Oh, YUM!”

“I take it you agree, then.” I can’t help smiling. He has the ability to brighten most things up, which is quite a talent in this house right now - and much needed. I worry, and I know I shouldn't but I do, that I may be becoming like my Mum. Depression and anxiety have blighted her life, and when I feel my mood slipping like this, I wonder. But Tom can still lift me out of it, which I’m fairly certain is a good sign it’s not clinical.

He’s looking at the ceiling. “I think… yes, I’m pretty sure there’s a bottle of that Algerian red left.”

“Oh, really? That would be ideal with it.”

“I know.” He snuggles into the crook of my neck. He smells delicious, fresh from the shower; I don't even mind that his hair is still damp. It’s actually quite nice, because the coolness is pleasant on the hot skin of my cheek. I still feel a bit rough, slightly woozy from the migraine, I suppose. Hot head, cold rest of me, that’s how it gets me. And frankly, being up close and personal with Tom is always good. ALWAYS. “So, my darling Pen, how are you feeling now? Any better?”

I shrug. It’s the best I can do without lying, and I won’t do that. He kisses my temple softly and squeezes my upper arm, then settles a bit more snugly against my side, pulling me into the space between us. He knows that what I need is him: his presence, his love, his support and the knowledge that those are mine for as long as I want them. I allow myself to lean against his firm body. Bobby sidles in from the kitchen and whines softly - he’s such an attention whore. Honestly! _I’m kidding. He’s a darling, and he knows when I’m upset, like now. He wants to join in the comforting, bless his little doggy heart._ I reach over and stroke his silky ears - _Bobby’s I mean, pay attention -_ and the three of us have half an hour of veg time on the sofa together. Just hangin’. It’s actually rather nice.

I just wish there could be a baby there with us, that’s all. Is that too much to ask?

                        _________________________________________

 

I’m trying to work, really I am, but that chaffinch - all puffed-up against the freezing cold in the crook of the branches, like an overweight cab driver or an old lady with three coats on - is so distracting… As is the wait for the first sign. I’m sick of it, I hate it (no, I LOATHE IT), I definitely don’t want it, but simultaneously every time I go to the loo I’m hoping to find something, just to put me out of my misery. You know the feeling, I’m sure: waiting for the other shoe to drop.

At least then I’ll know.

But so far, nothing, nada, rien, niente and I am climbing the fucking wall…

I never had bad PMS before. But I was on the pill for a while, then I had an implant. It had been years since I had a ‘natural’ period, I suppose, so I couldn’t really say. And honestly, I don't think it’s that bad now; it’s more the psychological effect of knowing that it’s coming; the monthly reminder that I’ve failed. Again.

_And again, and again and again… at such a basic, fundamental part of being a woman. What is wrong with me?_

Tom is downstairs, shuffling about, muttering. He’s starting to learn his lines for the Pinter. I say ‘starting’, he’s been at it for a while now and whenever he asks me to run them with him he’s damn near perfect already. But as he says, at this stage, all he can do is be off book by the time they start rehearsals. Once the company all get together, everything changes. I’m so excited to see him in this. I’ve never seen him onstage in anything contemporary. It’s got my mind working on some ideas, but whether anyone else will be interested in them, well, that’s another matter...

I don’t want the baby stuff (or to be more accurate, the lack-of-baby-stuff) to be a distraction for Tom, not right now, but I know he’s as anxious about it as I am. He says all the right things, but I can see it in his eyes. I fear it’s that he’s worried about _me_ , in fact. So I need to put my big girl pants on and get a fucking grip. I know that the desperation I feel is normal (biological clock, blah, blah…); I know, too, that what we are experiencing isn't unusual, especially for couples of our age. _Believe me, if there is an article on the subject, I’ve probably read it..._ Mum told me about a woman she knew (her hairdresser or something) who had totally given up and then suddenly fell pregnant at 46. _Not exactly the most cheering story, Mother._

_JHFC, I wish I could talk about something else. I wish I could THINK about something else!_

OK, so, speaking of Mum, let’s give her call. It’s time I did, and a few minutes talking to her usually puts things into perspective. I get up from the desk, and wander across the room to the bookshelf while the phone is ringing. This one is mine - so it’s full to bursting, untidy, but ALPHABETICAL… unlike someone else’s around here. I can never find anything downstairs, because even if I manage to locate the ‘right’ section (in his Byzantine system, that is: apparently the Dewey decimal means nothing to him), I then discover the one I’m looking for is in fact on his bedside table, or in a pile on his desk, or on the floor in the living room, or whatever… Anyway, I’m standing here caressing my latest acquisition, a Christmas present from Tom - a facsimile First Folio, GORGEOUS - when I hear Barbara’s voice.

“Hello, Sarah dear.”

“Aunty? Is Mum alright?”

“Oh yes, she’s kneading bread at the moment so she asked me to answer the phone for her.” Of course, it’s Friday. They always get together on Fridays. I hear Mum say something. “What? How do you do that? Oh yes, I see.” The sound changes as Barbara switches to speaker mode.

“Hello darling, everything alright? Has Tom left for America yet?” Mum sounds slightly out of breath, no doubt from wrestling with the dough.

“No, not yet, he’s got a few days still. We’re fine. You know…”

“Busy?”

I glance guiltily at my desk. “I’ve got plenty of work to do, yes.” There’s a pause, and I picture the two women exchanging glances. There have been a few heart-to-hearts about our attempts to ‘get in the family way’, and every old wives tale in the book has been trotted out. I brace myself for yet another helpful suggestion, or worse still, news of some other lucky woman’s pregnancy.

I hear a muffled thump as Mum slaps the bread dough on the table and beats it with a fist. “I think you work too hard, you know, sweetheart. Perhaps you ought-”

“I need to be occupied, Mum. I think if I was just sitting around, with nothing else to think about, I’d go insane.”

Mum starts to say something else but Barbara speaks over her. “She’s probably right, Paula. She’d only be there obsessing about it all day. And it certainly can’t be for want of trying. I can’t imagine they could be at it any more than they are, knowing those two. I mean, honestly-”

_“Barbara, really!”_

I laugh, dear Aunty B can always embarrass everyone and not bat an eyelid. She simply doesn’t care. I look forward to being her age.

_As long as I’m a mother and preferably also a granny by then_

I let Mum get back to her baking and reluctantly return to the script I’m attempting to ‘improve’. _Need a silk purse but have a sow’s ear? Sarah Blake-Hiddleston is your gal…_ I suppose it’s a good thing to have a positive reputation, even if it’s only for being able to salvage other people’s not very good things, but I’d rather be doing my own work, or even better, writing something original. If I can’t be growing something new and original, that is.

_Aww, shiiiit. There I go, twisting the knife in my own guts AGAIN...? I’m starting to believe I’m a masochist_

 

                                    _________________________________

 

“Are you busy this afternoon, darling?”

I look up from my empty leek and potato soup bowl to see a rather wicked expression on my husband’s face, one I am not totally unfamiliar with. “Not necessarily…” He smiles in that Loki sort of way and I am instantly wet. An elegant hand reaches for mine and we race up the stairs, closing the door on an irritated Bobby, who is pushing his luck in ignoring the ‘in your bed!’ from his master.

I did fear, as time passed and I didn't get pregnant, that sex would become, if not exactly a chore, then perhaps rather, well, fraught with tension. But so far, thanks to the fact that I am married to SMA (you remember my abbreviations, right?), and he seems to find me unerringly attractive despite my apparent inability to procreate, we still go at it like rabbits pretty regularly (we haven’t got to the point of me taking my temperature and calling him out of meetings to ejaculate into me yet, mind you…).

_Yeah, sorry, I know. You tuned in, hoping for news of rows, right? Of heads in hands, of sulking, of sullen silences and cold empty beds…? NOPE. Still sexy times, three out of four weeks a month. Sorrynotsorry_

He knows, just as he has always known from that first evening, what I want, what I need. As we cross the bedroom floor he gently tugs on my arm and turns me towards him, his lips touching mine so softly I want to cry. It’s just like our first kiss, on the steps of my house in Talbot Road, when I was so nervous and so excited I barely knew what I was doing. Now our movements are like a familiar dance, as if we have been practicing and refining our elaborate choreography for three and half years, except I never really know what’s coming ( _except me and him, of course),_ not exactly _._ I just seem to follow, or he does, I don't know; it sort of happens, and it’s always good, it’s usually wonderful and once we start all that matters is what we feel and how we feel and the world goes away for a while.

And when it’s over, we lie in a muddle of arms and legs and hair and I love that time best, almost. I feel him take a deep breath. “It’s due, anytime now, isn't it?”

_He knew. I should have guessed. He knows everything._ “Yes. Yesterday or today.” I sigh, try not to cry, but I can feel the tightness in my body. My boobs are sore and the nipples tingle, for a start.

He kisses my hair softly, snuggles me tighter. “Maybe, this time…”

“Don’t, Tom.”

“Darling, we mustn’t give up hoping.”

“I’m not giving up, not really… but it’s that hope that gets you, in the end.”

“Oh my love, it will happen, I know it.”

I sit up, unable to bear any more of this, even from him. “Do you, Nostradamus? Well, perhaps, when you’re in Arizona, a friendly medicine man might have a potion for us, or a bag of something I could wear around my neck… or perhaps we should sacrifice a chicken and bury it in the garden…” And I’m properly crying now. Tom doesn’t protest at my harsh words, he doesn’t argue; he knows me better than that. He loves me more than that. He just sits next to me on the side of the bed and holds me tight.

 

                                    _____________________________________

 

Well, ladies, that was Friday, now it’s Sunday, and we’re still waiting for You-Know-Who to arrive…

I was up, I dunno, about thirteen thousand times to the loo in the night. More than once Tom was awake when I got back, his eyes glittering in the faint light. I’d whisper “Nothing yet.” to him. Or just shake my head. When we got up this morning he didn’t ask, merely looked at me with that face. You know the one. The one that says _I don’t want to get my hopes up or yours but could you actually be pregnant, this time?_ It’s perfectly calibrated, like so much he does: I know he is anxious not to hurt me, but I feel so strange. Disconnected, almost. I don’t know what I feel, in fact. Numb, maybe? And of course, I am equally concerned not to hurt him, for the same reason.

So we sit at breakfast, which my wonderful, beautiful, perfect husband has fetched with our beautiful, slightly less perfect cocker spaniel (he may have rolled in something unmentionable and unspeakably malodorous on Parliament Hill this morning), and neither of us dare actually say what we are thinking aloud.

I look over at Bobby, who is sulking in his bed, damp and steaming with fury after having been thrown unceremoniously into the downstairs shower and scrubbed free of fox shit on his return from what he considered to be the acme of walks. He sighs heavily and turns away from my gaze - he’s not talking to either of us after such shabby treatment. I laugh and look over at Tom. “I suppose there’s no point in asking Grumpy Pants over there to go to Boots for us, then.”

Tom puts down the _Observer_ and his coffee mug and I watch him scanning my face and considering his words carefully. “You mean, for a…”

“A test kit, yes.”

“But you’re only a couple of days late.”

“But I’ve been like an atomic clock since I had the implant out, haven’t I?”

“True…”

“And these new tests can tell you right away.”

“Can they?” I see it there, that glimmer, the one I saw on my own face in the mirror earlier.

“You don’t think I’ve been reading up, Oddy? I can tell you chapter and verse…”

“I’m sure. So, OK. But what if it’s… not.”

“You mean, will I crumble into a mess if it’s not positive?”

“That’s not exactly what I meant, Sarah my love, no. I simply wondered if there was a risk of a false negative this early.”

_His face. I want to kiss his face all over. More than usual, I mean._

“I don’t know. I expect it’ll tell you on the packaging.” I reach for his hand. “I know it’s early, probably too early, but I can’t stand this, Tom. I can’t function, can’t sleep, can’t think about anything else… and the thought of you leaving for the States without us knowing, or at least trying to find out…” I shake my head; that’s too horrible to contemplate. He stiffens his jaw - Henry at Agincourt, but hairier (and less muddy). I watch the possibilities chasing each other across his face. “ _You_ can’t go, before you say anything. And neither can I, really.” He frowns, nodding; I shrug. It’s one of the disadvantages of notoriety, this lack of privacy. One tweet or IG and the world would ‘know’ something that might not even be true...

“No, no, of course. So…?”

“So I’ve texted Marianne. She’s popping round in an hour.”

                        __________________________________________

 

We’re finishing off the couscous tonight, or at least, the lamb and the vegetable harissa stew part. I made too much on Thursday - I always do. It’s a terrible fault of mine. I think it’s because I learned to cook at home, catering for a family of four all the time. I used to do it when I was single, under the guise of ‘cooking for the freezer’, and that worked quite well. And it wasn’t a problem when I was hosting a FND, of course. Now we are two I still can't seem to manage to make enough for only one meal. That said, it’s not a disaster, because this particular dish is even better when it’s been sitting in the fridge for a day or two. I just whipped up some fresh couscous to go with it, and we started off with a nice prawn salad. Lots of fresh greens and tomatoes: vitamins and minerals...

Tom had a big glass of that Algerian red with it, to finish off the bottle. I didn’t have any.

No wine for me.

Not for a while.

_I don’t think he’s going to need the plane to get him across the Atlantic._


End file.
